


Don't let me be misunderstood.

by SheyRicci



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Gen, General
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25975486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheyRicci/pseuds/SheyRicci
Summary: The team is home on a five-day medical stand down.....
Comments: 27
Kudos: 142





	1. Chapter 1

Eric Blackburn shoved away a pile of papers that demanded his immediate attention, pulled a pale blue file close, tapped it with a finger, picked it up, opened it, closed it, tossed it aside. He took a drink of mud, ehrm, coffee, picked the same file back up, held it in his hand, didn't open it, stared at it in frustrated consternation, tossed it.

Victor Lopez.

What was it about this guy that rubbed him the wrong way?

By all reports, he was; polite, well-mannered, easy to get along with. He followed orders, performed his duties without complaint, and often beyond what was required. His prior instructors and team leaders only had good reviews and glowing recommendations. Past teammates considered him a strong, stable brother who performed well under pressure and in intense situations. They _all_ were proud to have called him teammate, were honored to have served with him.

He didn't disobey direct orders, he didn't cause trouble. He didn't just go ahead and do what he wanted to, what he thought was right...unlike someone else Eric knew very well.

Yet, there was something…..something...just... _something_ about him.

Unlike Clay Spenser, no one called Lopez; loud, brash, arrogant, cocky, boastful, foolhardy, reckless, irresponsible, heedless to his own safety.

File in hand, he dug through the piles on his desk, withdrew a fat, battered, stained with coffee mug rings, red file folder, tab long gone, edges tattered, corners torn, spine stapled and taped together, tapped it against his forehead.

Clay Spenser.

Now there was a man who disobeyed orders, bucked authority, fought leadership, questioned Admirals!

He sighed, added a splash of whiskey to his coffee, fanned his face with the well-abused red file. It went everywhere with him and the only other person who knew its entire contents was his wife, Betty. Well, maybe Doc. Doc had his own red file and most lists and reports and documents were contained within both...they exchanged copies frequently, and they weren't in any official military file.

Lopez and Spenser. Clay and Vic. Oh boy.

He tried not to let anyone influence his opinions of others. Tried so hard. And until Spenser had come along, he felt he had succeeded. He hadn't let anyone's opinion of Jason make him tuck his tail and run for the hills all those years ago.

But dammit, Clay had a knack for reading people and it didn't matter what anyone else thought. If he didn't like someone, there was usually a reason why and Eric couldn't think of a single time when the kid had changed his mind.

Ray liked Lopez. Had pursued him, convinced Jason the man was the best fit for Bravo. On paper and by reputation, he was. Eric had agreed, and Bravo had selected Lopez to join the team.

Ray had spent the last couple months, training, guiding, grooming Vic for his future position on Bravo, but from the moment it had been announced, Clay had erected a wall. He'd been completely standoffish, outright hostile, downright rude and not even Brock had been able to get out of him why.

All Clay had said was; it's a feeling, I don't trust him, time will tell.

Eric got up, paced around the table, poured more mud out of the pot. He really should put in an order for one of those fancy coffee machines, the one's Jason hated that made one cup at a time. Might be a pain in the ass, but the coffee would always be fresh.

And since Clay hadn't taken to Vic, Eric was rereading reports and digging back to find someone from when Lopez was in boot camp to come up with a reason why.

He sat down, added another splash of whiskey. He really shouldn't have alcohol in his office, on the base, but eh, fire him. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. He should call it a day, head home. He couldn't concentrate and his mind was not on his work. It was focused on those colored files on his desk and he couldn't convince it to move on.

The team had just returned from a mission, that while successful, no one had returned from unscathed. Everyone was bumped, bruised or broken...though the only broken bone had been a big toe...and the entire team was on a five-day medical stand down.

There would be no spin-ups.

He glared balefully at his right arm, snug in an elastic bandage to protect his elbow. He'd injured it when he'd leaned out of the back of a truck to swing Karl – one of the two tree trunks on Support – over the tail gate and safely aboard. Just a minor sprain, easily managed with ice, a sling when needed, ibuprofen. It'd been a couple of days since the incident and it truly felt much better – still, though embarrassing.

Bravo, Bravo….. _Bra_ …. _vo_.

He'd long ago decided he'd rather lead, command, strategize, make decisions, than trod through jungles and dive into oceans scientists had yet to conquer. But then he'd been assigned to Bravo, led by the mighty, conceited, egotistical Jason Hayes and he'd seriously questioned his sanity.

He'd been set up for failure and he knew it. He'd pissed off someone high in authority and though they couldn't 'fire' him, they sure as hell could, and did, make his career miserable.

When he'd been assigned to Bravo, Jason Hayes was already Master Chief and he'd wondered at his luck at landing such a job. Bravo was considered the best Navy SEAL team in the platoons, both coasts, and he'd thought any Lt. Commander would be honored to serve with them, lead them. HA!

He'd soon understood why that wasn't necessarily true – he'd met Jason Hayes and the man was impossible to command. It couldn't be done. No, really. It. Could. Not. Be. Done.

He'd had serious reservations about remaining, had considered putting in for a transfer, admitting defeat, but his wife had convinced him, somehow, to let Jason have his head, see if left to run free, he would return 'home'. She'd advised him to sit silently, wait patiently, offer support, bail him out, have his back, be there when he wanted to talk, and the hard-headed Chief would come around.

It hadn't exactly happened that way, but he and Jason had found common ground and pretty much equal footing. Rarely, did he ever have to pull rank on his Chief and put him in his place. Usually, a strong word or sharp tone was enough to remind the team leader of his place and rank, convince him to stand down or argue behind closed doors. But when he had to, though Jason would argue and balk, he would fall in line.

It had been a rocky start, but unlike his predecessors, Eric hadn't given up. He'd hung in there and had been rewarded with the highest mission success rate in the Navy from a group of men he was proud to call friend and whom he trusted with his life.

And as proud of that as he was, Lordy-Lordy, it had come with a price: Over the years, there had been losses, deaths, failures, disappointments. He'd seen good men crash and burn. Careers end. Marriages fail. Bankruptcy. Traitors. Betrayal. Blackmail. Mass death of an entire team. Destruction. Downward spirals. Life-altering injuries. Recovery. Substance abuse. Complete disaster.

But despite all that, Bravo's current line-up had remained steady.

Jason - conceited, self-assured, territorial, possessive. Possessed, a tactical, strategical mind matched by no other.  
Ray – stable, patient, understanding. Had a way with Jason no one else did.  
Sonny – aside from his many 'phobias', a loyal, reliable, team player.  
Trent – confident, consistent, unflappable. Best damn medic ever.  
Brock – silent, observant, tracker. He saw and knew more by remaining quiet. Excellent dog trainer.  
Clay – master at disguise, affinity for languages. If he didn't want to be detected, you wouldn't find him.  
Metal - no questions asked, you wanted dirty work done, a grave dug, a body gone, you called Metal.  
Lopez – uh….? There was a reason the pale blue file was so thin.

And then there was Bravo Support.

Bravo's support team boasted 15 members, was led by Dutch and his 2IC, Randy – though Randy was recruited into Command when on a mission with Bravo because he was a wizard with computers, especially tracking devices which had become a necessity with the acquisition of Spenser.

Support was divided into two teams:

Tier Two: chosen for their individual skills and expertise.

Chuck – pilot. Howlin' Mad Murdoch extraordinaire.  
Greg – copilot. Just a kid and learning rapidly under the tutorial of Chuck.  
Jeff – medic. Good enough, Trent was content to have him back him up.  
Matt – gunner. Could strip, dismantle and fix any gun that fired.  
Chris – driver. Could drive anything, anywhere, on any terrain.  
Seth – mechanic. If it had a motor and required repair, it required Seth.  
Kenny – bomb squad. If you wanted it dismantled, call Kenny.  
Karl – bomb squad. If you wanted it blown up, call Karl.

Tier Three: the remaining five sailors were the men who contained scenes and guarded sites. Provided cover and clean-up. Recovered evidence and bodies. When Bravo didn't require the immediate services of the Tier Two team, they assisted Tier Three.

He'd helped Jason assemble the team. Hell, he'd helped Jason _get_ permission to have the team and found the funding to do it. They'd hand-picked every member, some wrangling and dealing had been required, but then, Jason Hayes always got what he wanted and Eric saw to it that he did. Support didn't go on every mission, and at times, they would spin-up with another team, but no doubt about it, their loyalty was to Bravo.

He sighed, picked up the pale blue file, opened it, sipped his coffee, flicked a finger to flip the page.

Victor Lopez was a damn good shot. Athletic. Possessed physical endurance, stamina. He was a team player, got along well with others, didn't buck authority, followed orders and yet….there was just... _something_ about him.

He was….sly? Cunning? Too quiet? Too easy-going? Too agreeable? Was that it? Or was Eric's view colored by Clay's disdain? His dislike?

"That folder has seen better days." Davis replaced the cup of coffee in his hand with one from a local donut shop franchise. "And not an AAR report." She offered him a bag. "Muffin with egg and cheese."

Eric peered at the file in his hand, forehead wrinkling in confusion as he pondered her comment.

"Not that one." She waved, sat down, pulled the battered red one close but didn't open it. "This one." He glanced over but didn't reach to take it from her, their relationship was built on trust - she wouldn't open it and he'd let her hold it.

Weird, huh?

Even without a name on it, she knew whose it was - it'd had a name at one time. She'd seen it many times, seen them all - they went on every mission. It wasn't an official file either. One of Eric's personal ones, she bet. Which meant, it was his notes and thoughts jotted down over the years, maybe with some input from Doc.

Every member on Bravo had their own, Eric only, colored-coded file.

Jason – black.  
Ray – yellow.  
Sonny – dark blue.  
Trent – green.  
Brock – orange.  
Clay – red.  
Metal – purple.  
Vic – light blue.  
Cerberus – white.

Some were fatter than others, some more worn and she didn't know what the colors meant, but there was clearly a system that Eric had designed and understood.

"Clay's behaving, isn't he?" She asked casually. "Jason sent him home, right?"

Eric grunted, set the file down, pinched the tab on the plastic cup lid onto its perch, inhaled the wonderful aroma of fresh, strong coffee, took a sip - Aaaah...delightful. He snagged the bag, removed the sandwich, unwrapped it. He hadn't thought he was hungry, didn't know what time it was, but damn, it smelled good. He took a bite.

"Thought we were going to go over the AAR reports." She suggested lightly. "Working on a weekend and all." She waited, didn't push. Eric was in a mood. "Since every report needs a medical file added."

"You ever think," He munched, swallowed. "Spenser and his issue with medications, would be what makes Bravo the team they are today?"

Lisa shrugged, sat down across from him at the table. Though she thumbed through various files, she didn't pick any up and open them to read. Just put them in neat pile, arranged by color to her liking.

"Ray explained it once, in a way." Lisa replied. "Or Summer tried to say when I asked him about his transfer request."

"Some truth to it." Eric agreed, reached for a napkin. He'd like to add salt and pepper to the egg, but his wife was on him about consuming too much salt. "By focusing on Clay and what he might be up to or get into or worrying about what danger found him or what could happen to him, we all did miss home a little less."

"We proved we could lose him in our own state." Lisa joked. "And in a house!"

"What do you think about Lopez?" Eric asked offhandedly, sipping the wonderful coffee. Aah, bless the woman! He tipped the cup in her direction in honor of her thoughtfulness. She nodded in return. "Too good to be true?"

"Isn't it Ray's goal to mold him into Bravo's 2IC under Clay someday?"

"That was the plan."

"You don't think so?"

"I think Spenser needs a stabilizing, steady influence."

"And you don't think that's Vic?" She asked casually, carefully. "Ray does."

Eric shrugged.

"And he's yet to warm up to Vic." She went on. "He doesn't take to new people too well."

Eric nodded.

"Time." Lisa advised. "Give it time. Clay takes a while to warm up to people he doesn't know." She repeated with a soft smile. "I think Metal is making headway though."

Eric snorted. "Jason isn't getting any younger." He joked. "Don't know if there's enough 'time'." He phone buzzed. He glanced down with no intention of answering it, but the number on the screen convinced him to pick it up - Randy. "Blackburn." He was quiet, Lisa watched the emotions play across his face. Oh-oh. "Say that again? He did what?"


	2. Chapter 2

The day warm with a decent breeze, Jason sat outside his apartment on the top step, aimlessly pitching wadded up balls of paper down the flight of stairs. Some made the trash can, some bounced off it, others didn't even reach it.

Eh, he had a broom and dustpan, he'd sweep up later.

He'd come home from his last mission, ill and aching, to an apartment he hadn't recognized and was trying to decide whether or not he was happy about that little change in his life. He figured the problem he had with it, was the change had happened and it hadn't been in his control.

He now had furniture – a sofa and recliner, a proper bed, an actual kitchen table with four chairs that matched. The other room he'd been using for storage had been cleaned out and a set of bunk-beds now adorned one wall, a dresser the other and he still didn't know where the stuff he'd had in there had gone. It wasn't an actual bedroom, it lacked a window, but obviously it had been repurposed into a place his kids could sleep when they came home.

Until now, they'd slept over at Mrs. Seaver's house whenever they'd been in town but apparently, they'd had enough of that, so what he supposed to do now? He'd have to start thinking about renting a house, he guessed. Emma was old enough to live alone, Mikey though...still a tad young to spend more than a few hours on his own...couldn't spend the night alone. Hell, he didn't even drive yet.

He'd gotten Emma's college tuition sorted out, so if he wanted to, he could buy another house. A smaller one than the home he'd shared with Alana, with a pool though. Man, he missed the pool.

He wadded up more sheets of the worthless newspaper, pitched a volley down the steps.

His life had started to go to shit when he and Alana had split, gone straight downhill when she'd died but now, it was finally beginning to return to what he considered normal. Time had passed, grief had eased, emotional pain had healed. The kids were happy at school, his hip was better, therapy was going okay, Clay was healthy, the team was good. The one hitch was Vic, but Ray was on that and Metal was tasked with beating him into line, so Jason had nothing to worry about there.

Right?

He sighed, there was always something to worry about.

He'd hand-picked this team, built it with advice and guidance from Ray, support and backing from Blackburn. He was proud of Bravo, pleased with their support team, honored to be the leader of both, but the last couple years had been fraught and hard.

The split with Alana, the loss of Nate, the devastating loss of Echo, the death of Alana, being a single parent, his decision to leave the team, the death of Adam, his return to the team, the too-near loss of Sonny, Clay's injury, Swanny's suicide, the addition of Lopez to the team.

And in the midst of all that? He'd had to learn how to handle the job, the team, life with the team rookie who had some issues with medications and whom Bravo constantly seemed to misplace. No, really, they turned around and the little prick was gone...just gone. The ways that kid had disappeared, been taken, turned up missing, lost...it had been hard to keep track of him.

Jason blew his breath out, pushed a hand through his hair that needed a cut.

Courtesy of the good Lord, he'd been blessed – cursed – with Clay Fucking Spenser who had turned him prematurely grey and gave him more heart attacks than his 16-year-old daughter had when she had started partying and dating.

That. Kid.

Spenser had a way about him - his trust, his loyalty, his determination, his willingness to defend his brothers anyway needed; his ability to 'not hear' orders, the way he'd go against authority to find his team, protect them, bring them home. What team wouldn't want that kind of dedication?

When he was sick or hurt or drugged, throwing a reaction, he wanted to be with someone he knew and trusted, and when he was, he was content to remain with them; let him be confused and with someone he didn't recognize, he'd do what he thought he had to, to get back to his team.

And the strange thing? The really, really _strange_ thing about it all? Every man on Bravo - Sonny included. _Sonny!_ \- was fine with the kid's, uh...uhm...erhhm...clingyness? It was never discussed, never talked about, never brought up, but many a night was spent sitting beside the kid, watching him, staying with him. And if he just so happened to hold onto a pant leg or sleeve or was content in someone's lap, well that was never talked about either.

He sat up straight, stretched his back.

No one would believe him if he followed in Ash Spenser's footsteps and wrote a tell-all book about his time on the teams. Well, they would up until the chapter where the kid joined Bravo.

Life was not boring when you had to manage a kid whose ability matched your own, might even surpass it, in time. Keeping that kid corralled, toeing the line and behaving took patience, fortitude, experience, and a willingness to grant him the space to grow.

And one hell of a Lt. Commander.

Not many leaders would allow the kid the freedom to grow and learn from mistakes and experiences like Jason did. Though Clay was obstinate, pig-headed, he was eager for knowledge and willing to learn. Jason allowed anyone on his team to make suggestions, come up with a plan, argue their case, stand their ground and Clay rarely - no, never - remained quiet. He always had an opinion. Always.

It was one of the reasons Bravo was the best.

Jason sighed, drank water from his stainless-steel reusable, filtered water bottle that had been a gift from Emma. Seems she felt his tap water was terrible and not fit to drink. Hell, he drank days old water that spent hours in the sun, yet his tap water wasn't fit to drink. He supposed it was a good idea, but it wasn't big enough. Whatever the ounces were, they weren't enough. He needed one of those Igloo jugs. HAHAHA!

Eh, whether or not he could tell the difference in taste, she meant well. And it did keep the water cold.

He wadded the last pages from the newspaper, tried tossing wads with his left hand.

They'd just returned from a mission where no one had escaped unscathed and were on a five-day medical stand down. There would be no spin-ups until they'd all been re-evaluated and cleared by Doc.

Ray had aggravated an old shoulder injury.  
Brock had a broken toe.  
Sonny had tweaked a knee.  
Trent was nursing sore ribs.  
Metal had vertigo.  
Vic had skinned palms.  
He'd picked up a stomach ailment.  
Clay had a bruised kidney.  
Blackburn had strained ligaments in his elbow.

Cerberus had escaped injury because he'd been happily snoozing on Brock's bed in a cozy nest, back in Bravo's air-conditioned room on base – it had been daylight and deemed too hot for the fur-covered canine.

They'd returned to their room; dusty, dirty, bloody, limping, griping, groaning and the damn dog had merely raised his head, gave them the eye-over, snorted, gone back to sleep, like since they were all accounted for, upright and walking, there was nothing for the canine to be concerned about. He swore that dog understood everything that went on.

The bottle empty, Jason set it aside. He wanted more, but wasn't ready to get up and go refill it.

Clay.

If a man who was _not_ Bravo's kid suffered a mildly bruised kidney, there was some pain, an ache mostly. Maybe a bruise. A week of rest, all was good, back to work on Monday. No one needed to be worried about anything.

But this was Clay-the-medical-enigma-Spenser, the reason the team now had a mandated rule everyone must shower after coming in from a job. The kid could bulldoze his way through illness and injury like no one Jason had ever known. If they all didn't keep a third on eye him, he'd never admit to serious injury simply because it would never occur to him that the god-damn, mother-humping injury _was_ serious!

It was well known the kid had an extremely high threshold for pain. So high, that years ago, Trent and Doc had put their heads together, corned Clay and subjected him to a series of tests. A team of specialists had ruled out any form of congenital insensitivity to pain – CIPA. The kid felt pain, just not the way a normal person did – it was like, for no known medical reason that anyone could explain, the kid could, well, just ignore it if he wanted to.

And didn't that just make life fun.

Anyway…..they'd returned to quarters, after debrief and submission of AAR's, with ice and heating pads, hot water bottles and heat therapy patches, passed around a bottle of ibuprofen - the aroma of menthol rub over-riding the pizza Davis had left.

It had started out as a quiet evening. The guys had Skyped home and Metal and Vic had played a game of cards. But then Clay's call had ended and he'd gotten up to his usual antics of: what can I do to annoy Vic this time.

The pain in the ass had made a bet with Vic that the team's newest member couldn't do the 'Asian squat'. Clay had poorly demonstrated: feet and knees together, toes pointed straight forward, heels flat on the floor. Vic had attempted it, claimed success but Clay had pointed out his feet were wider than a squat toilet in Asian countries – whatever that meant – therefore, he'd failed.

Vic had claimed the bet void, since Clay couldn't do it either, but Clay had smugly informed him, he'd never claimed he could do it. Pissed over being played, Vic had tackled Clay, they crashed sideways and after rolling around in a wrestling match, Clay's shirt had ridden up and there was the bruise for all to see.

When questioned, yes, said Clay, he was a bit sore but denied knowing he had a bruise. He'd then challenged them all to prove none of them sported bruises anywhere.

And of course, they couldn't do that.

And to be fair, when Sonny had held the kid hostage in the shower so Metal could look him over, no bruises had been found or seen anywhere on him. And that had been only a few hours before the wrestling match.

For no known reason, the kid had a tendency to bruise quickly and vividly – just, you know, not all the time. He'd been subjected to every possible blood test known to man. Trent once joked they'd tested his 'estrogen levels' and given him a pregnancy test and ALL had been negative. Good to know he wouldn't be 'spawning' any offspring anytime soon - heeheehee.

But this was Clay, and a bruise might not just be a bruise, so Trent had taken him to pee. Yeah, that hadn't gone over well - the kid outta been a lawyer, Christ, he could argue a case! A slight tinge of pink in his urine had earned him a trip to the infirmary – always best to have him checked out at a hospital or the infirmary anyway.

A bruise? No, again - this was Clay, so, not just a bruise. Scans, x-rays, imaging tests had revealed a mildly bruised kidney. No nausea, no vomiting. He wasn't in any pain. His blood pressure was fine, IV fluids to maintain it hadn't been necessary but oral consumption of liquids had been recommended anyway, he _could_ pee, and there'd been no signs of internal bleeding, it would heal on its own in a week or so. He'd been sent to bed under orders to increase his fluid intake until they'd flown home and to maintain the increase daily until he saw Doc again, on day six.

So once home, against his better judgement since the Navy doctors had released him, Doc had agreed and Trent had found no reason to deny Clay's request, Jason had allowed him to go home to his own apartment – alone.

Rebecca, the current girlfriend, lived in DC, and Jason had told Clay she should stay there because she wasn't welcome in Virginia Beach. He'd forbidden Clay trekking up to DC to see her and Blackburn had backed him up on that.

Jason didn't like to interfere with his men's private lives, but oh, he didn't like her. He hadn't liked the last one either. Obviously, Clay had shitty taste in women. No, Jason hedged, tossed another volley of wadded paper, that wasn't true. The kid just couldn't pick one Jason liked. He had nothing against women having a career. Or being ambitious. Or being dedicated to their job. His problem arose when they created personal drama before Bravo deployed.

Out of all the wives and girlfriends, over the years, only Clay's two serious relationships had stuck in his craw.

Betty was strong and supportive.  
Naima was a sweetheart.  
Janine was bat-shit crazy. All of Trent's wives had been.  
Katie was silent and solid, just like Brock.  
Pam was….she was….she was, um, consistent. What the hell was Metal thinking?  
Sonny had never had a steady girlfriend.  
Jason had no idea if Vic was married, engaged, or dating – didn't care either.

He was home, babying a still cranky stomach, trying to decide if he liked his apartment, should stay in it or if it was too small and he should find a rental, move into a house where the kids could each have their own room. That made the most sense, he'd have to task his mother with finding him a house. She'd be on the first plane to Virginia Beach, he called and told her he was going to look for another place to live.

He patted his sore belly. Medication and replenishing liquids had kicked in and he felt better than he had for the last several days. He'd been miserable and pathetic on the flight home, but his stomach had been settled since he'd been home. He should get up, refill his bottle with water or get a Gatorade from the fridge.

The team would be ready to go on the sixth day, once they'd seen Doc and were cleared, should they get a call. Clay was cleared to spin-up with them, but depending on the mission, he could be confined to command with Davis.

His phone buzzed. Blackburn. _Blackburn?_

This couldn't be good.

He sighed, pushed a hand through his hair, grabbed the bottle of the pink stuff, took a big swig, thumbed answer. "Eric," He greeted, choosing to use the familiar, first name. "What do I need to know?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am on a roll! How about that?

Trent was sprawled on his couch. The house quiet. No screaming, no laughing, no crying. No sounds of running feet, slamming doors, furniture over-turning, crashes or breakage. No bells, whistles, sirens or obnoxious sounds from toddler toys – really, did every adult in their families have to buy the kids battery operated toys? Coloring books and crayons, Grama, please!

There were no shouts of: MOMMY! DADDY! Gimme that. I'm telling, you're gonna pay for that. Waaah. No tattle-telling. No, he did, she said. Just blessed silence.

And it was great!

Janine was puttering in the kitchen, making dinner. Yankee pot roast. With carrots and _turnips_ , celery and onions, potatoes. His favorite meal and it smelled so damn good. Garlic and thyme. Bay leaves, maybe. She might even have added some red wine. His stomach growled.

No mac and cheese. No chicken nuggets. No hot dogs. No pizza rolls. No chopped-up spaghetti. His wife wouldn't spend the meal cutting meat, wiping fingers, cleaning faces and refilling glasses of milk.

How she did that while eating her own meal and carrying on a conversation she kept track of, baffled him. And he was a man who could plan and strategize, uncover coups and derail plans of war and destruction. He could run ops, jump out of airplanes, swim in the sea at depths daylight wasn't seen, scale mountains, descend cliffs, and yet, he couldn't figure out how his wife kept all the kids fit and fed – and remained sane while doing so.

"Doing okay?" Janine called. "Want ice yet?"

"I'm good."

The last time they'd had any time alone together, they'd attended a wedding and their weekend getaway had been cut short when Clay had gone missing in a flood out near Roanoke. Yeah, 'cause that happens to every parent, didn't ya know?

He didn't mind the constant presence of numerous children - sometimes he thought he had Brock's two offspring more than Brock did! At last count, he was pretty sure he had five: two boys with his first wife and a daughter with Janine who had two girls with her ex, but there always seemed to be more than that running around the house.

The multitude of kids kept Janine busy and she didn't miss him as much as she would, were she home alone all the time, so he never said anything about the open-door policy of rotating kids, but a weekend alone, was rare indeed.

Her two were on a vacation with their paternal grandparents. Their father might be an asshole, but his parents were decent people and Trent had no problem with the girls he considered his own, spending time with them. His two and his kid with Janine were with his first ex. When it was their week to have the boys, sometimes more than just his kids were dropped off. If Janine didn't care, neither did he. She was the one home with them, and hell, the boys were more often at his house then their mother's.

And if his ex-wife, who had become good friends with his current wife, took their daughter so Janine could dote care on her injured husband, he had no problems with that either.

Injured. Pfft.

He had sore ribs and though he had slight discomfort, his pain was managed with over-the-counter liquid-gel caps. He wasn't going to ruin her plans to nurse him though, he didn't mind her attention focused solely on him.

He loved the kids, but right now, he didn't miss them.

He'd once taken all five out for ice cream so he could see how Clay was doing with a reaction to an unknown bug bite. Once they were seated and eating sundaes, and he'd counted five heads, it occurred to him the youngest of his five kids was somewhere still under the age of two and hadn't come with him – toilet training was in progress and he didn't do diapers in public.

When the black girl with the colorful beads, realized he was staring at her, she'd grinned, waved and thanked Mr. Trent for the ice cream. The little girl, seated between his girls, arms linked, had been too young to be Ray's daughter...so, he'd figured the child was known to Janine and he'd brought her with him. Just…he'd had no idea who she was and hadn't recalled her being in the mini-van.

Huh. Never again. Nope. Nuh-nah. He was not cut out to manage five kids on his own.

Clay. Clay Spenser. The team rookie. Just a kid. Oh. Dear. Jesus.

Until that kid had joined the team, Trent hadn't cared about a teammate's injury once he'd finished the patch job in the field. Once they'd been handed over to the care of a doctor to receive proper medical attention, his job was done.

He'd always been interested in injuries. The military shrink he'd seen after Nate had been killed, had called it a morbid fascination. It had bothered him. Big time. He'd never thought wanting to fix injuries was morbid and no one else had ever suggested anything was wrong with him until…..her.

He didn't remember saying anything to anyone, but he must have, because the week after that session, he'd arrived for his appointment and had been greeted with a different doctor. He'd been greatly relieved and pleased that this doc was much more open-minded and understanding, had encouraged him to talk about what fascinated him and why.

He'd never wanted to be a doctor or a surgeon, had never wanted to take care of sick people. His bat-shit crazy second wife had labeled him cold and unfeeling. Pfft, the reason he'd left her was because when his boys had been left in her care when he was spun-up, she hadn't known how to be a mother to them.

And she'd called him cold? Bitch.

Janine was always scolding him because if one of the kids skinned a knee, he was more interested in seeing how much skin had been lost, then spraying Bactine on it and applying a Ninja Turtle or Hello Kitty band-aide.

Little kids didn't want to sit still while Dad satisfied his curiosities.

But then Ray had decided Clay simply must join Bravo and suddenly, the team had a rookie, a kid, and Trent had someone who was content to let him do whatever the hell he wanted to do. Because it hadn't taken long for Trent to realize that their new kid had some issues.

He still had no idea how the kid had managed before joining Bravo. Perhaps his friend Brian had been there for him more so and in more ways than anyone ever knew. Maybe Brock and Doc were correct, and he'd developed the allergies after a tick or bug bite. Brock had had a dog that had developed an allergy to beef after a tick bite. Far-fetched, he knew, but he'd seen enough in his life not to discount or dismiss anything in the field of medicine. Anything was possible and answers might never be found.

Doc.

Bless Blackburn for finding a doctor who had no problems with a 'mere medic' constantly asking questions and assigning him to be the team Doc. He was more than happy to share his knowledge and experience with Trent as well as accept Trent's suggestions while they'd worked together to figure out Clay, learn what medications he could safely take and get him through any reactions he had.

And that hadn't taken weeks, or even months. It had been years. And some of it had been intentional. Yes, with Blackburn's blessing and Clay's cooperation, they'd treated the kid as an experiment, and now, they were fairly sure, they'd 'figured him out'. When hurt, injured or throwing a reaction to a drug or medication, Clay sought comfort, security. As long as he was with someone he knew, he would grab hold of whoever was closest to him, cling to an arm, a pant leg, lay in a lap.

And the thing was, Clay never remembered any of it.

Doc believed Clay did remember, just buried it to avoid embarrassment and humiliation and Bravo never called him on it because, well, they were okay with it.

But…but...if he didn't know who he was with, he had a tendency to defend his teammates by any means necessary. And if he couldn't find them, he'd try to leave and search for them. Sometimes it was funny, and the team was amused. Other times, not so much. Summer sure hadn't stuck around long after having a gun pointed at his face by a drugged-up sniper who could shoot huckleberries off a bush.

Eh, Bravo had learned their lesson and a situation like that, hadn't ever happened again.

He patted the heating pad on his chest. He'd applied ice before the flight home, switched between the two, but now heat eased the ache, felt best. If they were spun-up after their five-day stand down, he'd be cleared to go. Everyone would be. Only Clay, depending on the job, had limitations on what he was allowed to do.

"Bath before dinner." Janine called.

He grunted a reply. Didn't matter what he said. If she decided he should soak before dinner, he'd soak before dinner.

He turned the pad off, set it aside. Everyone always turned to him, looking for answers and he'd shrug and go, 'all's good', when his stomach was in knots and his heart raced because if he let on to his team he didn't know, they wudda freaked out. He'd always had to be cool, calm, collected. Had to keep it together so no one else would fall apart.

After the therapist has been reassigned, Trent had a damn good idea Blackburn knew and saw everything. So, when Eric had asked how he was doing with Clay, he'd admitted to being a bit overwhelmed when something was wrong with the kid and he didn't immediately know what or why but had to act like all was good so the team would be okay.

Blackburn had assured him that it wasn't his burden to shoulder alone and not even a week later, Doc was introduced to the team. Jason had long wanted their 'own' doctor and Blackburn had chosen well. Once able to confide his insecurities with someone capable of figuring out the what's and whys and dos and don'ts, taking care of Clay had gotten a whole lot easier and Trent had actually looked forward to episodes and reactions….you know, his morbid fascination and all!

"You ready?"

Trent sighed, inhaled the wonderful aroma in the kitchen.

He was confident now, with the medical file he and Doc had compiled, that if Clay left Bravo and joined another team - his reactions were less these days, rare even - he would not meet an early death due to a medical condition. He also felt that in the future, when Clay led the next generation of Bravo, he would choose his men with the same diligence Jason had and they would protect him, just like the current men of Bravo did.

Janine perched on the arm of the sofa, lifted his head, slid onto the cushion, cradled his head in her lap, used her nails to gently scratch his scalp.

"Feels good." He murmured. He always went to the hair salon, not a barber, for a haircut. Janine's stylist had a shampoo girl and he could sit there for an hour while her nimble fingers all but scalped him.

"What are you reading?" She took the book from where it rested on his belly. He'd never been much of a reader until Clay had joined the team, entered his life, become his friend. Then, he always had some medical book on the coffee table or night stand. Allergies. Bleeding. Reactions. Medicines. "Clay acting up again?"

"No." Trent enjoyed her scent of rose patchouli. "Bruised kidney. Mild. He's good."

"How are you feeling?"

"Not gonna lie. I've felt better." He was tired. Exhausted really. Jason didn't trust easily and rarely relinquished care of his men to some strange quack on foreign soil – even if that quack was an American qualified doctor on a military base.

"Roast has another hour. Jacuzzi's ready. Think you can manage getting back out of it without too much pain? I'll add Epsom salts."

The hunt for an outdoor jacuzzi whose manufacturer had recommended the use of corrosive salts had been extensive. He'd been away when it had been delivered and when he'd seen it, he'd wondered how he'd been able to afford it. This was no usual backyard whirlpool, it was the type used for physical/heat therapy commonly used for sport related injuries. The answer of how they'd been able to afford it had been explained when he'd been told it had been procured by Lisa Davis and designated for 'team use'.

"What have you taken today?"

"Just Advil."

"I'll bring you a beer."

He sat up, swung his feet to the floor. She handed the book back. He marked his page, set it on the coffee table, padded barefoot down to the basement, headed out the sliding glass doors that led to the decking around the hot tub.

They didn't have any close neighbors and their entire backyard was fenced in with a privacy fence so he didn't hesitate to shuck his clothes, step naked into the tub, sink into hits bubbly, soothing depths.

He was fascinated by the human body's ability to heal. He didn't bat an eye, someone bled all over him. It was his job. He loved to make the decision whether to stitch a wound or stable it - and if you pissed him off, you got stitches and he just very well might tug on the thread a bit harder than was necessary. He didn't care if he hurt someone in the process of making sure they didn't bleed out or you know, up and die on him.

His stitches weren't neat and precise, left a scar, but they also left the person alive. Wasn't that more important than soothing someone's panic or taking the time to sew in a straight line? He thought so.

Up until Clay Spenser had entered his life, he'd been confident in his abilities as a field medic. Nate had had a problem with his rough and abrupt ways and even though no other teammate ever had, Nate's attitude had gotten under his skin. So much so, Trent had been apprehensive about taking on Clay.

Brock had convinced him to get the kid a chance, give him time, and though Trent had had issues with his cocky attitude and belligerent ways, the kid had never had a problem with Trent or his methods.

When Doc had been appointed to the team, Trent had again been leery, but Doc, even though he thought Trent was smart and the talent to be a doctor, hadn't looked down on him for being content being a door-kicking field medic. One night, when Trent had told him what the shrink had said, Doc had assured him he did not have any morbid fascination whatsoever and encouraged Trent to ask questions.

Trent was quite sure that shrink was practicing somewhere in Antarctica, if she was practicing at all, and he'd never been happier.

Janine was hinting about having another kid. Might as well make it an even number. With all she put up with, and the way she accepted Clay as just another kid in the house, if she wanted another baby, he would oblige. Course with his luck, he'd knock her up with twins, then in a few years, they'd have to have another.

His phone buzzed but he didn't move to pick it up. They were on stand down, it was out of reach, he was comfortable and Janine was home.

"Hi." Janine answered cheerfully. "He's soaking in the hot tub, do you need him?"

Trent sank under the water, he didn't want to know.

"…he's where?" Janine was asking when Trent broke the surface.


	4. Chapter 4

Brock swung in the hammock strung between two maple trees in his backyard, straw hat shielding his eyes, half asleep, bandaged foot nestled on a soft pillow. Cerberus gnawed on an elk antler nearby. They cost the earth, but were his reward from the team for a job well done.

His other two dogs, both seniors and lazy, snoozed beneath his hammock, a sleepy eye on his two toddlers playing in a kiddie pool. One shriek of terror, and Cerb would beat him to the pool. He'd grab the well-padded ass of which ever kid happened to be flailing and drag him or her to safety. No better babysitter, than a well-trained dog.

Katie, his fiancée and mother of his two kids, was taking a nap. A lab tech at a hospital, she worked shift hours because the money was better and she was a night person. Her sister watched the kids when she worked and Brock wasn't home. Or his mom did. Or Janine. It amazed him, how unfazed Janine Sawyer remained no matter how many kids she had underfoot.

He supposed he'd up and marry her one day. He'd gotten pretty lucky with this one, unlike his first fiancée who had been miss-hoity-toity and thought his job meant unlimited cash. Katie was a Dollar General, Wal-Mart shopper. She was good with money, lived within their means, and though the home was often cluttered, it was never dirty. She didn't mind dog fur or cat hair on the furniture because her one extravagance had been the demand of a canister vacuum with hoses and wands and power heads and whatnot. He'd thought it strange a woman would want a sweeper for Christmas, but when he'd priced them, he'd understood. She did the vacuuming without complaint, and with three dogs, two cats, two kids and an eight-member SEAL team in the house, she'd received her sweeper.

That was one of the best things about her - she rarely complained.

She never complained when Brock brought Clay home, often watched him when Brock had to report to the base. She didn't fuss over the revolving door of teammates who came to see the kid when he was staying with them. She didn't puff up about the extra loads of laundry, the shelf in the fridge set aside for Clay's flavor of Gatorade - man, that kid could dehydrate quicker than his kids could make cookies disappear. She didn't complain when Trent just waltzed in the house without knocking. She didn't complain about the phone calls, all hours of the day and night.

She was great that way.

Miss Hoity-Toity had wanted to compete with the other wives. Pam, Metal's whatever, had family money. Alana and Jason had been a high two-income household. The Perry's, in his opinion, lived on the extreme edge of their means. Nate had lived in debt. He and Katie lived in house with a decent yard, but it wasn't large in terms of square footage.

He'd heard Ray on the phone once, talking about his new mortgage. Brock had covered his shock by a faking a coughing fit. His mortgage was like, a third of that! He and Katie stressed enough about his job and his time away from home. The last thing they needed to add was money issues.

He lifted his foot from the pillow. Ow. Pain, bruising, swelling, discoloration, he'd had x-rays. Yes, his toe was broken. And though there wasn't much that could be done for it, it still throbbed. It was taped and bandaged, ice kept the swelling down and Aleve kept the pain minimal, but he hadn't had on boots or shoes since they'd left Peru.

He wasn't the only Bravo member banged up. They'd all come away with a minor injury of some sort, so the team was on a five-day stand down. And that was rare. Everyone with some injury or another. Even with Clay on the team, it was rare indeed.

Doc assured him he would be able to comfortably wear a soft hiking boot, when they were cleared to return to work. They would all be re-evaluated on day six, and it was expected the team would be given the go ahead, should they get spun up. Except, maybe Clay. His participation, depending on the mission, might be limited to command and the only person who might have a problem with that, would be Lopez.

Aah. Clay Spenser.

Brock considered every man on Bravo his friend, his brother. He would die protecting any of them. He would sacrifice a limb if it meant saving their life. But he was closest to Trent, and he'd formed the first personal relationship with Clay. Sonny and Clay were tight, but Sonny lacked the patience needed to coax Clay into talking.

Nate had been a good brother, a decent teammate. A man Brock trusted with his life, but not with secrets; a man Brock protected at all costs, but not a man he had respected. He had cheated on his wife, risked his career and spent money he didn't have on another woman and talked about his teammates to other units in the platoon.

He'd been reckless and stupid, it had gotten him killed.

That had hurt. They'd all been sent to grief counseling. But Trent hadn't immediately bounced back and Brock hadn't understood why, since the medic and Nate hadn't been close. Ray had attributed it to Nate's death and Trent being unable to save him, but Brock knew better. Nate had been shot in the neck and was dead before anyone on the team even knew he'd been hit.

It had taken several late nights sitting outside staring at the stars with a bottle of Polish vodka before Trent had confided in him. Brock had never said anything to his friend, not one word, but a comment behind an office door and the therapist had been replaced - no one fucked with his friends.

They'd run as a team of five for a while and Trent had returned to his usual, sarcastic, if somewhat subdued, self. Then Clay Spenser had arrived and nothing on Bravo had been the same.

Brock had decided to sit back, wait and see how the arrogant, cocky little shit behaved.

Clay and Sonny had not hit it off.  
Clay and Jason had butted heads.  
Clay and Ray had a rocky start.  
Clay and Trent had silent stare downs.  
Clay and Brock had tested one another.  
Clay and Cerberus had bonded the first day.

The worst situations had involved Sonny who had taken offense that the kid hadn't always taken his advice. Brock hadn't cared, hadn't done anything to help or intervene. He could have, but he'd wanted to see how the kid handled himself. He had a mouth, he argued, he disagreed. He stated his case and he defended it. He was a pain in the fucking ass. Always second guessing, always questioning, always having a different opinion, always disagreeing with the plan. He teased, he taunted, he tested. He pushed buttons, pushed too hard, too far, too fast, never knew when to back off, never knew when to quit.

Brock rolled his head at a shriek - outrage, not terror. A lazy glance in the direction of the pool revealed his four-year old had fallen out of it and was being splashed by his sister.

"Keep the water in the pool." He advised without moving. Kids.

But time had passed and things had settled down. They got to know one another better and there was no denying the kids talent. He could hit anything he aimed at and there was no one you'd rather have high to watch your back than a sniper who could do math, calculate distance and angles, in his head.

But…that had been in action, on a job, while deployed. Getting to know him personally had taken a little longer. On down time, he was pretty much laid back and easy going, but hard to get to know - always cracking jokes and responding with humor and wit. He'd been wary and evasive and it had taken time to 'breech his defenses'. He'd taken to Brock first, and Brock thought it had been because of the dog. He didn't really know, it didn't matter and he didn't care, the kid had just naturally navigated his way, and a bond had been formed, sealed.

"Woof!"

Brock came up on an elbow at Sadie's warning. Apparently she thought the kids were getting a bit rowdy and disturbing her sleep.

"Knock it off you two!" He called a warning. "If I hafta get up, you're both getting out of the pool."

Then Clay had gotten a headache that just would not go away. Nothing had touched it. Not Tylenol, not aspirin, not aspirin with caffeine, not Advil, not Aleve. They were on a four-day job in some hot, muggy country, the days steamy and sticky. They'd hunkered down inside while the sun was up, ventured out at night and finally, Brock had suggested Clay ask Trent what to do for a headache nothing relieved.

It had been a test...and the kid had passed it.

Trent rarely offered advice or suggestions unless directly asked because of past derision and rejection from Nate, a couple of others. Clay had sought Trent out, told him about the headache and the medic had offhandedly told him he should try holding something cold in his mouth. The kid asked if ice would work. Trent had suggested a popsicle and though Clay had said he preferred the flavor grape, he'd accepted the orange one.

Whatever the kid's issues were with authority and direction that didn't come from Blackburn or Jason, he had no such problems with medics.

Soon after the headache episode, Trent had observed Clay taking Brock's favored Aleve for a sore back, injured in a fall down a hill. The kid was bruised and battered, but not seriously injured but had woken up with cramps in his calf, that when asked about, he'd said he'd never really had before. Trent had replaced the Aleve with Advil gel-caps and the kid hadn't had leg cramps again.

And oh, if only that had been all.

Within months, the kid had: been nearly kidnapped, left behind and stabbed with a primitive arrow, fallen into a snow covered ravine, suffered a bad reaction to a booster shot, been blown off his feet, been drugged in Yemen and nearly kidnapped again, lost in a bet and sent on what was supposed to have been a routine scouting mission with Charlie, swept away in a flood and rescued by a set of very determined sisters, kidnapped and no one had known it, suffered heat sickness, been kidnapped and drugged, gotten lost in mudslide, been trapped in a collapsed building, and been courted by another team.

A beach ball landed on his belly, he lazily batted it back. One of the kids retrieved it, returned to the pool.

Oh he could go on. Tonsillitis, the flu, kinky girlfriend. The red Gatorade, the harem, the prison, the train ride, the emergency landing on a aircraft carrier, the Chinese not wanting to negotiate his release, just wanting to give him back!

Oh...and Summer! Ha! That flip-flop wearing hippie had transferred out. And that kid who had run with them when Seth had been out with a broken leg...so young, he hadn't even started shaving...yeah, Brock was pretty sure they'd scared that kid straight back to high school.

Unlike his bristling confrontations with Sonny, whenever Trent had demanded to see an injury or asked specific questions, Clay had never denied or refused the medics request. He may not have initially sought Trent out to tell him about an injury, but once he'd been made to understand the importance of doing so, he didn't hide anything. Not a bruise, not an ache, not even discomfort. Too many lives depended on everyone being healthy and on their top game.

Thing was, Clay didn't always realize he was hurt.

"DAD!"

The day was warm, but lacked the cloying, choking humidity that was common in Virginia this time of year. There was a nice breeze, the trees offered shade, the kids were behaving and a cooler of cold beer was on the grass at his feet...life was good.

"Don't splash your brother."

Good day to reflect and think and remember, recall, reminisce. Good, bad, ugly. Didn't matter.

He didn't mind hanging out with the team, enjoyed their time at the bar on Wednesday's, shooting pool, playing darts, vintage pinball, buying rounds. But usually, he was the first to leave, always eager to head home, spend time in his favorite recliner, cuddle a dog in his lap before joining Katie in bed.

Then Nate had died and Ray had pushed hard for Bravo to recruit, draft, Clay Spenser.

The sniper with a mathematical mind, matched by no other who had a tendency to:

A) go missing.  
B) throw unusual reactions to medications.  
C) find himself in situations no other soldier/sailor in the history of the U.S. Military had experienced.

And Bravo had a tendency to:

A) lose the kid.  
B) over-react and coddle him when he was throwing a reaction to a medication.  
C) come up with ways to protect him and help Blackburn bury the cost of retrieving/helping him.

And if rumors got around about the way Bravo circled around their youngest, no one would ever have them confirmed - if anyone had a problem with that, no one would dare say it to their face. Teeth would be lost, jaws broken. What happened on Bravo, stayed on Bravo. Clay might seek comfort, want the reassurance of his teammates and Bravo was okay with that - they'd taken a vote and decided to keep him.

But Lordy, what that kid could get up to!

He was always into something and shit just seemed to happen to him, follow him around. He didn't trust easily and it took him a long time to accept new people in his life. Bravo had been a team of five that had been together for several years when the kid had joined them and he'd accepted 'them' - the five - as a unit.

They'd been warned by Doc and Trent, that Clay wouldn't easily accept anyone new to the team and he hadn't, still didn't.

Summer….well, after the, uh, event that had involved a blizzard, a broken down truck, a kidnapping and kinda being held at gunpoint, he'd asked for and received, a transfer. He hadn't been officially assigned to Bravo anyway.

Vic had been with them for several months and talk about oil and water. Clay didn't want anything to do with him when he was awake and coherent. Injured or ill, pfft….he didn't let the newbie anywhere near him.

Then there was Full Metal. Clay wasn't openly hostile to him but let him be medicated, concussed or confused and he'd run away from Metal. And didn't the not-so Jolly Green Giant just love that. Bravo, when Clay wasn't around or was asleep, loved to tease the gruff grizzly bear that he was a big ole meanie who scared the team rookie!

HAHAHAHAHAHA!

He lifted the hat from his face at yet another shriek, cast another glance over….brother splashing sister….eh. He replaced the hat.

This wasn't exactly what he expected on Tier One Navy SEAL team, but hell, with the addition of Clay, Bravo was the best. They knew it. Everyone knew it. They were envied. They were requested. They were wanted. They were arrogant, cocky, snide. They were hated.

And they loved it.

His phone buzzed.

Shit.

He had it on do not disturb and only 3 contacts were set to ring through; Katie, his mom, Jason.

He would have loved to answer with a glib; someone better be dead, but in his job, someone very well may be, so….

"What did he do this time?"


	5. Chapter 5

The day warm, Clay was stretched out on a blanket under the shade of a big, leafy maple tree. With the team on a medical ordered five-day stand down, but under no orders to remain at home, Clay had agreed to Rebecca's suggestion they meet in a small secluded town on the York river, where she had a rental cottage for the weekend.

Jason had said he didn't want her at Clay's apartment, and he'd made it clear Clay wasn't allowed to go to DC while Bravo was home, but nothing had been said about meeting her at a neutral location.

They'd arrived last night around dinner time and while he was content to spend the weekend lollying about the cottage, grill burgers and hotdogs, swim in the river, she'd wanted to attend an associates back-yard BBQ some forty-five-minutes away, and here they sat – the highway shut down due to a big rig fire that caused the drawbridge to remain up, no detour available.

The time of idling the car and running the a/c was long over, so they'd joined other motorists under the tree to chat and pass the time, because it was going to be a while. Hours. Plural. So, all day.

He didn't say anything to her, but he was uneasy, sure this was somehow going to come back and bite him in the ass. Things like this always did. Always. He didn't get it. He'd been in the Navy since he was 18, and he'd never been in trouble as often as he was since joining Bravo. He got it, he was the youngest - or had been, until Vic had joined. Might still be, he didn't know - and their first rookie, but man, come on! Enough already! He didn't need to be grounded and babysat!

"Not the day I had planned." Rebecca commented with a sigh. "Least we're spending time together."

They were, and somehow, he thought, that was going to be a problem. He hadn't been ordered to remain at home, but he hadn't exactly told anyone where he was going either. Or that he was even going somewhere.

Yeah, that probably wasn't going to go over well.

Eh, they'd never know. He didn't expect anyone to swing by his place, he answered the frequent check-ins from the team via text and if anyone called, he'd answer. Otherwise, he felt he should be able to do what he wanted, because on a medical stand-down, there was no chance of being spun up or sent out.

"Sorry." She said for the fifth time, like it was her fault there was an accident and the road was shut down. "Not the day I had planned."

"No one's fault." He assured her. He was sprawled on his back, his head resting on his palms, fingers inter-laced, watching the white clouds float along in the blue sky between the leaves. It really was a gorgeous day and he didn't mind being outside. It was very relaxing and he was probably going to fall asleep.

Despite Trent's frown of disapproval, Jason's reluctance to be rationale, Brock's hesitation, Clay was fine and perfectly capable of being home alone. Or you know, spending the weekend with his girlfriend, at a vacation rental.

He. Was. Fine.

Bruised kidney. Mild, mind you. Yes, he had one hell of a bruise, but he wasn't peeing blood - a tinge of pink didn't count - there was no pain, he'd had numerous tests, he wasn't on any medication, there was no internal bleeding. No nausea, no vomiting, no muscle spasms, his blood pressure was fine. He hadn't been ordered to bed rest. All he'd been told to do was increase his fluid intake for the two weeks it would take for it to heal on its own, to help maintain his blood pressure.

And he could do that anywhere, with anyone. Rebecca was more than capable of taking care of him.

He just didn't get his team sometimes. They often over-reacted to the littlest bump, bruise, cut. They carried on, like if they didn't keep him within their sights, he'd disappear or something! Geez! Get lost once or twice, throw an allergic reaction to a medication a time or two and bam...suddenly, a twenty-eight year old man was no longer capable of taking care of his-damn-self or remaining home alone.

Don't do that, Clay.  
You're not going, Clay.  
You can't stay home alone, Clay.  
Where you been, Clay?  
Think again, Clay.  
I said no, Clay.  
You can't, Clay.  
Clay – no. Clay – don't. Clay – stop. Clay, Clay, Clay.  
Sit still, drink this, swallow this, eat this, wear this, do this, lie down, why are you up, stay in bed. Blah, blah, blah.

From. The. Entire. Team.  
Blackburn included.  
All. The. Time.

If he had a headache, or was sore, or had a cough, or had taken any medication, they wouldn't leave him alone. Someone always found a reason, an excuse, to stay, remain with him. How many times had he woken up and someone was sitting in a chair with their feet on his bed? Or sitting on a table, just watching him? Or were on the sofa with him? He winced...once, he'd woken up in Sonny's lap! Thank God the usually mouthy Texan had been snoring and no one else had been in the barracks. Whew!

And if he happened to come home with any kind of injury at all, he usually found himself staying with Brock. Or Sonny spent the first night or so with him at his apartment, claiming it was too far to drive to his own on his bike; or it was too hot, too cold, raining. Something. If it was determined he needed to be monitored, he was sent home with Trent.

He caught, held Rebecca's hand.

One time, he turned his face so she wouldn't see him blush, he'd been 'grounded' at Jason's house and Bravo One had paid his _daughter_ to babysit him! The hell was that shit? Okay, sure, he might be the youngest, but he wasn't the only one to get hurt or sick on a mission. It was like someone was always watching him. He'd catch them doing it, stare them down, but they didn't back down, just dared him with their eyes to say something...he never did.

And if he went to the bathroom, no matter where they were, and it'd been decided he'd been gone too long, someone came after him. If they let him go alone in the first place. Usually, soon as he said he needed to hit the head, someone else got to their feet to go with him. Pfft.

"Something bothering you?" Rebecca asked, rubbing circles on his belly. "You seem on edge. Tense."

"No." He was quiet, fighting sleep. "Dunno. No." He didn't want to fall asleep, because when he was in that 'fight sleep' state, he tended to, uh, recall disturbing...um...images.

And right on cue...memories flashed with dizzying speed; him in a lap, burying his head against an arm, holding tight to a pant leg; Jason, unshaven and red-eyed; Trent, pale and tight lines drawing his lips into a tired grimace; Brock with a hand on his shoulder; Ray, reading a book nearby; Sonny, drinking a beer and reading him the riot act; Blackburn, _fluffing_ a pillow; Davis; tucking a blanket over him; Cerb on his feet, growling anyone came to close. He hastily tucked them away...not a good idea to allow anything like that to surface.

"Something to drink?" She offered, he'd told her about his injury, so they had a well-packed cooler with beer, water, Gatorade and cranberry juice.

"I'm good."

He couldn't deny the times his team had come after him, found him, saved him, rescued him, brought him home. He guessed, a time or two, he might have scared them - _must have -_ even if he didn't remember any of it. He sure hadn't felt too good that time the blast had landed him on his head. Or when he'd dislocated his elbow, been tortured. And he had to admit, he'd been happy to see a familiar face...had taken comfort in the fact they had come after him, were with him.

That time, they'd lost him in a bet to Charlie, and he'd gone on a camping trip, he'd lost a fight to a woman. Then he'd been snatched in his sleeping bag, hung on a hook and when he'd escaped, he'd gotten lost in the freakin' jungle. God, his head had hurt so bad, he'd nearly kissed the boots he'd landed on when he'd realized they'd belonged to Trent...he'd grabbed hold and had wanted to let go...Aww...geeez! He scowled, ruthlessly shoved the memory down, away.

The only person he ever discussed his current situation with, was a dead man - man, he missed Brian. He'd reasoned while talking to a headstone, that he allowed the team to pretty much run his life and issue orders that he obeyed without fuss, about where he stayed and what he did, was because...well...the team had united over it. There were times he'd been hurt or sick and he didn't remember what had happened, but somehow, he'd known he wasn't alone and his team had broken rules and defied authority to go get him.

That rush of emotion he felt when he was; hurt or sore or sick or he ached or was confused, disoriented...whatever...and he realized he wasn't alone, that someone was with him, had hung around, was there to get him a drink or pick up the lost pillow, untangle the blanket, get him a shirt if he were cold...made the pain just a bit more bearable, made him feel it a little bit less.

"You're on stand down, correct? Not going anywhere. You weren't under orders to remain home. I don't see the problem." He'd told her he was under orders, though he hadn't specified whose, not to travel to DC. He hadn't, so she didn't see the big deal or understand why he was so tense. He hadn't had to come.

Clay shrugged.

"Relax." She teased, have him a hug, rested her chin on his shoulder. "What can they do? We're stuck, right? Not like they can come get you."

Oh, Lord girlfriend, don't say things like that! He got that she didn't completely understand his life, his team, his relationship with them, but she knew enough not to underestimate them and what they were capable of doing. And if they wanted him with them, well, past history and events had proven...he'd be with them.

His phone buzzed. A text.

There, you see? You see that?

"Don't answer it." Rebecca cautioned. "You're not working this week."

Clay bit his lip in irritation. "I can't ignore it."

She pulled the phone from his pocket. "Boss." She arched a brow. "Jason, then?" He nodded and she read the screen out loud to him.

_"You better have a damn good explanation."_

Clay winced, ouch, no dodging around that blunt, uh, question. He took the phone, sat up.

" _Met Rebecca."  
"In West Point?"_

Oh-oh.

How in the hell did they know where he was? That he'd even left home!? He wasn't wearing his watch with the tracker. He wasn't required to do so while home...well, not anymore, so...what, they tracked his phone now? Why?

" _We're on_ _down time."  
"We're on med leave. At home."_

Clay pushed a hand through his hair. Not even the mighty, great Jason Hayes could magically clear a truck fire and command the road open. There was removal, clean up, inspection of the bridge before traffic could start moving again. There was nothing he could do about where Clay was.

" _Have a rental. Just relaxing."  
"On Rte 33?"_

Sonofabitch!

Clay wanted to text he was a grown man, felt fine, was fine, he wasn't alone and Rebecca would take care of him. He wanted to reply that there was nothing Jason could do about where he was on his own time. Did he dare?

He didn't...his gut told him the team wasn't mad at him, just concerned. Like they worried if they weren't with him or couldn't get to him, they'd have to fetch him. He stared at the phone, his ears picking up a sound not yet audible to the others.

_Whumpwhumpwhumpwhump._

_"Truck fire, bridge stuck open, road closed down."  
"Stay put."_

Like he could go anywhere. Well, he could, but he'd either have to swim or walk and somehow, if they found out he'd been swimming in a 'vile' - Sonny's word - river, he wouldn't see his own apartment for six months.

Rebecca looked around as people started to stand, gather, look up. Yeah, they were beginning to hear what he already knew.

_Whumpwhumpwhumpwhump._

"Hey, that a chopper?"

_Whumpwhumpwhumpwhump._

"Medivac, you think?"

"No one was hurt, the news said."

_Whumpwhumpwhumpwhump._

"Traffic app says fuel spill, no injuries."

"Yeah, but it caught fire."

"Cudda been so hot, it damaged the bridge."

"News chopper then."

_Whumpwhumpwhumpwhump._

"Hope the bridge wasn't damaged, we'll be sleeping here."

"If it's stuck up, swim home, I guess."

Clay got to his feet. He knew the various sounds of choppers and this one did not belong to a news station. Wasn't police or medical transport either.

"They'll have to turn us around."

_Whumpwhumpwhumpwhump._

"That'll take hours."

_Whumpwhumpwhumpwhump._

This one was military. And it was coming here. To get him.

Shit.

"Clay?" Rebecca stood beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Uh."

She'd seen the change come over him with the sound of the still unseen chopper.

_Whumpwhumpwhumpwhump._

"Where is it?"

"Anyone see it?"

"Gotta be military."

"Pretty far from Norfolk. They don't usually fly out this far."

Everyone – because it is what humans, no matter their age, did – stood, hands up to shield their eyes against the sun, to search for and watch the chopper appear.

"Clay?"

He patted his pockets for his wallet, his keys. "Uh, sorry." He gave her a sympathetic grin. "I'll make it up to you."

"What? Make what up? Why?" She watched him search the sky, his eyes focused on where he expected the chopper to appear. "Clay?" She didn't understand. "What's going on?"

_Whumpwhumpwhumpwhump._

"Maybe a training exercise."

"Help coming for the fire?"

"Maybe flying in engineers to check the bridge?"

_Whumpwhumpwhumpwhump._

Clay handed her the car keys. his wallet. No, no one was coming to see the bridge.

"What's this?" _Whumpwhumpwhumpwhump._ "No." _Whumpwhumpwhumpwhump._ "Clay?"

"Sorry."

"No. You tell them no."

In answer, Clay held out his phone, gave her silent permission to do just that.

"Why?" She persisted, ignored the phone. "Your entire team is on medical stand down. You said so."

_Whumpwhumpwhumpwhumpwhumpwhumpwhumpwhumpwhumpwhumpwhump._

"Shit, it's coming here!"

"Over there!"

"Holy Moly, that'sa a huge one!"

"Lookit the size of that bird!"

"Presidential, ya think?"

"Naw, military though."

"For sure."

"Shit, that bird is low."

"Too low."

"Shit! It's gonna land!"

The chopper, large, painted camo green with open cargo doors, _thwump-thwumped_ into view, circled, hovered, dipped, rose, descended, banked, circled, repeated. It was searching.

"Clay?" Rebecca demanded, hand on his shoulder. "It that here for you?" She couldn't believe this was happening. "Is it? Yes? Why? What's going on?"

He didn't answer, just shaded his eyes against the stun, watched the hovering chopper. He could see the helmeted men in the cargo area, a rope ladder, a safety harness attached, was lowered.

He'd been found.

"They don't want me here." He said finally. Sure, sure, don't land over yonder, let him walk to the chopper...nope.

By now, everyone, absolutely everyone, was outside their car and watching.

"But you're...I mean...they can't...Clay?" She gasped at the swinging rope ladder, cast a glance up at the chopper. It might seem low, but was in fact, very, very high up. "You're not going up that. Don't you dare. It's not safe." She looked around, eyed the car, clutched the keys. "You can't just leave me here."

The chopper was lower than it was cleared to be in this airspace and the way it held absolutely steady despite its altitude, then tilted slightly left in greeting, told Clay Chuck was the pilot.

Oh yes, he knew that tilt….it was Chuck's way of letting Bravo know he was the pilot coming to their rescue, no matter what aircraft he was flying. And if Chuck was flying, Jason was on that bird. Oh, he was in deep, deep shit.

_Thwumpthumpthwumpthumpthwumpthumpthwump._

"Someone coming down, you think?"

"Clay, no." Rebecca held his elbow. "Just don't. What can they do?" She tugged. "They can't make you go. Stay here with me."

Clay gave Rebecca's cheek a kiss, cupped her fingers over the car keys. "That's not an option."

"Yes, yes it is." She swallowed. "What about your car?"

This was going to make the news, be explained as a military training exercise and if he didn't climb that ladder, Jason would climb down and if the boss had to come get him...

"Stay here." He set her back when she tried to follow him. "I have to go." There was absolutely no doubt, Jason wasn't on that chopper. "They'll send someone for the car, just...take it back to the cottage when the road opens."

She nodded and he walked barefoot over to the ladder - wouldn't do to attempt the climb in flip-flops - unhooked the safety harness and within seconds, had stepped through the straps, secured the buckles around his thighs and snapped the belt at his waist.

Watching him secure the harness, it occurred to her, he knew exactly what he was doing. She knew what his job was, but still, the efficiency and speed in which he buckled in, made her wonder just how often he did this.

With a wave, he backed away from the ladder and then with a running jump, leapt from the ground and swung from his hands on a rung as he scrambled for a secure hold.

If he wasn't in trouble, they would have lowered a harness that would have become a seat, once he buckled into it. It would go around his waist, through his legs and over his shoulders and he'd be winched into the hovering chopper.

But no. Nope. Wasn't going to be that easy. They'd lowered the ladder and it was their intention, he make a spectacle of himself as he climbed it.

Once he balanced his weight, secured his ankles around the ropes, he attached the carbine hook to the safety rope, freed his feet, began to climb, the ladder held by hands in the chopper. It might look easy to climb a rope ladder into a hovering chopper, but in fact, it wasn't. It took strength and agility and confidence. The rungs were small, the ladder, though sturdy and strong enough to easily support his weight, swung in the wind and never remained steady. He was half way up, when the chopper gained altitude, just rose higher without moving forward.

He stopped climbing, hugged the ladder tight to his chest until the violent swaying slowed. He cast a glance down, blew Rebecca a kiss, finished the climb, allowed the arms reaching from the chopper to grab hold and guide him in. The ladder was pulled up and the chopper revved, dipped and in seconds, was out of sight.

Far below, everyone on the ground turned to look at Rebecca who smiled bashfully, shrugged.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my boyfriend." She took a bow. "Yes, Navy."

"Be proud of him, ma'am. And his service to this country."

"Wow, he made that look so easy."

Once hauled into the chopper, Clay found himself face-to-face with Jason. Oh, and there was Trent and Brock and boy, they didn't look happy. He was handed a helmet with a headset, not for communication, but to protect his ears.

Oh boy, was gonna be a long ride.

They landed on base. The crew melted away, Chuck gave him a sympathetic smile and a mock salute, wandered away with Greg who offered him a wave. Bravo Support wasn't on stand down, they were working and available for a mission, should their help be needed by another team in the platoon.

He followed Jason across the tarmac, into the building, down the hall, up the steps and oh-oh, to Blackburn's office, Trent and Brock behind them. This wasn't going to be good.

"Spenser." Eric greeted simply, held out a piece of paper.

"What's this?" His reached to take it. His stomach was in knots so he was pleased his hand didn't shake. Perhaps it was his transfer off Bravo. Would he run with Charlie? He didn't think he'd like that. His one job with Beau in charge had ended disastrously.

"What it costs to put a bird up in the air to fetch you."

"I didn't need fetching." Clay objected. He still couldn't believe they had come and got him. He glanced at the invoice and despite his best attempt, his eyebrows rose. Wow. "We're on a five-day medical stand down."

"At home." Eric reminded him.

"I didn't leave Virginia." Clay argued. "You said not to go to DC. I didn't. No one ever said I couldn't..."

"Technicality." Eric snatched the paper back. "Pushing the limits. Always. Like you lay awake at night, coming up with ways to turn me grey." This kid was worse than Jason had ever been. "Never dare let you out of my sight, dunno where I'll find you, I do." He muttered, filed the invoice. That was going to take some work to bury.

"Then I need a definition."

Eric and Jason exchanged a look. Jason shrugged.

"I've talked and scolded and yelled and rebuked. I've reprimanded, punished. Does no good." Jason said. "He's run hills 'til he puked. Run the course until his feet blistered. I've grounded him. I'm open to ideas."

"Any blood, last time you pissed?" Eric asked him, waited, one eyebrow raised, hands on his hips.

Clay lowered his eyes, lashes against his cheeks as he blushed. Funny, he could be vile and vulgar with his team, lewd and crude, but called in front of Lt. Commander and suddenly he was all shy and bashful.

"Uh, no."

Eric nodded, handed him another sheet of paper. "Soon as Trent clears you."

Trent? Not Doc? Clay read the paper. No invoice with a high six figure amount this time. Nope. These were orders.

"You can't be serious." He stared at the letterhead, tried to process what it meant. "What...is...this?"

"Oh. You're not reassigned." Eric assured him.

"I'll send Lopez with you." Jason offered with a beaming, smarmy smile.

"Do you have to?" Clay asked dully.

"I do." Jason crowed. "You need a babysitter." He rubbed his hands together. "And you don't need to be medically cleared to go on a spa retreat with Mrs. Bonsky."

"But...but...this?" Clay moaned weakly, waved the paper. "Boss, come on! Yoga?" He gulped at the mental image of elderly ladies attempting yoga poses, shuddered at the thought of what they might wear to do it. "Don't they...like...play bridge or something?!"

"Don't let me be misunderstood this time, you will go with her, you will stay with her, and you will not leave the spa until it is time to bring her home." Jason struggled to be stern. "You will not leave to meet Rebecca somewhere and she will not visit you at the spa either."

"How old do you think my wife is?" Eric asked irritably, head lowered, chin to chest, to hide a grin.

"Wait? Your wife? Who is Mrs. Bonsky?" Clay swallowed, reading the itinerary. "Charades? Painting? Ceramics? Pottery making? Baking? Crocheting? Quilting? Wait...water aerobics? I don't have to participate in any of this, do I?"

"Her mother." Jason clapped Clay on his shoulder. "Have fun. We want photos."

"Come." Trent beckoned. "Let's go piss."

"Brock?" Clay turned to his ally.

"I had to wake Katie up to watch the kids so Trent and I could go after you." Brock shook his head. He and Trent had agreed to accompany Jason because they never knew what they were going to encounter when fetching the kid.

"No one needed to come after me." Clay huffed. "Try calling me, I'll tell you where I'm at."

"Like you told us you were leaving?"

"Didn't know I needed to!"

"You were told to stay home!"

"Trent?"

"I'm missing Yankee pot roast." Trent rolled his head to look at the ceiling to hide a smile. "Don't even talk to me."

Clay crumbled the paper. He wanted to throw it, but stuffed it into the pocket of his short, mumbled: "I'm not wearing tights."

He went with Trent, Brock hesitated. "Lopez? Not a good idea Boss."

Jason nodded and Brock followed his teammates.

"Those old ladies are gonna have him for dinner." Eric laughed. "Wait 'til they see him at the pool!"

"Should we send Millie and Maggie on vacation?"

Eric was laughing so hard, he sloshed his good scotch when he went to pour it into two glasses. "Oh! That's a good one!" He hooted.

"How'd you convince your wife and mother-in-law to agree to this?" Because Betty and her mother, most definitely, did not engage in 'senior activities'. Not at home, not at a spa, not anywhere.

Eric handed Jason a glass and they toasted. "Apparently, I'm escorting them on a cruise."

Jason nodded, downed the contents of the glass, held it out for a refill. So, Blackburn had given up his vacation to 'punish' Clay. Eh, their Lt. Commander didn't mind...or he wouldn't have done it.

* * *

I may or may not, end this here. I've a few requests where Clay is 'taken care of, tended to, left with', Betty.

Any thoughts?"


End file.
